Seeds
(after Palm Sunday, Anselm Keifer)
Deep in the root ball of the ship
the plant collector is making a nest.
He counts his catch, tucks each seed
in its own hand-labeled box, ebony
cabinet ticking with paused hearts.
He dreams one day of growing
a fresh desert, of dried moments
in the old land coming back to life.
And as he waters the dust, sailors
sleep and no-one sees the woodern
mast dancing in tune to the wind’s
song until, reaching for water, it leans
too far, loses balance. White sails,
like baby gowns, christen the sea.
*Sarah Salway is a novelist, blogger and journalist, and currently works as the RLF Fellow at the London School of Economics. Find out more here: www.sarahsalway.net
